In Favor of the Past
by Kansas42
Summary: It's all been there, done that, until Dean wakes up with no memory.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Notes: Okay, so, I know it's been done, but I couldn't help it. I got the idea and I was like, well, what is fanfiction for if not to deliver an unrealistic amount of angst heaped upon two very hot men? And that was all the justification that I really needed.

So here it is. My story, takes place sometime after Tall Tales, I guess. Enjoy.

I.

Concussions. Broken bones. Bleeding out. Next to death. It's all been there, done that for the Winchester brothers. Hell, Dean's survived electrocution, a heart attack, and not one but _two_ reapers. Sam may not have as an impressive of a track record, but he _has_ been strangled more than any other man alive.

Blood. Death. It's all pretty par for the course, really, and Sam doesn't think that there's much they haven't seen or felt or been through.

Then Dean wakes up in a hospital bed after being pushed out a three story window and waits patiently through Sam's, "Thank God's" and "Good to see you, man's" before mentioning that he has absolutely no idea who Sam is.

And that . . .well, that's new.

Dean's always been an overachiever in the worst possible ways.

II.

Dean cracked a couple of ribs and broke his wrist in the fall, but other than that, that and the complete and hopefully not permanent amnesia thing, anyway, he's completely fine in the eyes of the medical world. He gets released from the hospital two days after waking up.

Sam waits until they're back at the motel before telling Dean what they do for a living.

Dean doesn't take it well.

"Dean!" Sam says, banging on the bathroom door. "Dean, you can't stay in there forever!"

"I don't plan to!" Dean yells back. "No, _I_ plan on waiting for the _psycho_ that's kidnapped me to fall asleep, and then sneaking out and getting the fuck out of dodge!"

Sam raises an eyebrow. "You know," he says, "that plan might have gone over better if you hadn't told me about it."

"Yeah, well. My first plan would have worked fine if the window in here wasn't freaking two inches wide."

"Why didn't you just run for the door? You probably could have made it."

"Well, you were sort of standing in the way there, Sammy."

Sam leans his head into the bathroom door and closes his eyes against the familiar nickname. He opens his mouth to call Dean on it _(You remember, Dean, don't you see? You ALWAYS call me Sammy)_ but closes it again quickly. Sammy's not exactly the most original nickname for Sam, and even paranoid, amnesiac brothers could make the connection between the two. Dean calling him by _that_ nickname doesn't mean a damn thing, and Sam has to push down the hope. It's too dangerous right now.

Sam's planning on trying a peace offering via frozen burrito, or, at the very least, a stick of neutral gum he can slide under the door, when he stops in mid-motion, backtracking through the last few minutes of their conversation.

"Wait," Sam says. "Wait. You didn't go for the door because you're scared of _me_?"

"No, Sammy," Dean says sarcastically. "I'm just hiding in the bathroom because I can't get over the awesome shade of _puke_ painted on these walls."

Sam grins. It's inappropriate, given the circumstances, but he just can't help it. "Dude," he says, "you think I can kick your ass, and you're just hiding in there like . . . a chick."

"Hey!" Dean growls behind the door, making Sam grin wider. "I'm just Amnesia Guy over here, okay? _You're_ the freak who thinks he hunts down demons and ghouls and, I don't know, possessed chickens or something."

"Lokhas."

"See! You even know the _name_ for possessed chickens! Who knows the _name_ for possessed chickens? No, you see, here's the plan: you stay out there with your war against the _lokhas_, and I'll just hang in here for awhile before you decide to use me as bait for a demonic turtle or something." There's a long pause before Dean finally says, "Sam? Aren't you going to tell me the official name for a demonic turtle?"

"There's no such thing."

"Right. Vampires and poltergeists and homicidal fucking chickens . . . _those_ are all normal. Those are all so fucking _sane_."

"Dean . . ." Sam trails off, not knowing what to say. It's not like Dean doesn't have a point here. There's no way he's going to believe any of what Sam's saying if he doesn't see it with his own two eyes. But there's also no way that Sam can take him out on a hunt, certainly not now, not like this.

For a minute, Sam just sits there hopeless, floundering for anything that he can possibly do, and comes up with one big, fat nothing. "Dean," he tries again, because Dean's the one who fixes things, who knows what to say and do and takes care of his little brother.

But not this time, because this time it's Dean, not Sam, who's broken. "Sam," Dean says, his voice harsh through the bathroom door. "Just . . . just go away for a while, okay?" 

"I'm not—"

"I'm not asking you to actually go anywhere. Wouldn't want your prisoner to break free of his little crazy cage." Dean's voice is so bitter that Sam actually winces. "Just . . . just leave me alone for a little while, okay? Let me think."

And really, what can he do? Kick the door down, he supposes, and try to shake Dean's memories back into him, but that will only make Dean more scared, and Dean being scared of him has suddenly lost all appeal. "Okay, Dean, okay," Sam says and goes over to sit on his bed.

Where he waits and waits and waits.

But Dean doesn't come out because Sam's not really his brother, not now, not anymore, and Sam isn't really surprised to find himself crying. He tries to keep quiet so Dean doesn't hear, but he's sure Dean does . . . and Dean still doesn't come out.

_That's not Dean anymore_, Sam thinks and starts to cry harder.

III.

He doesn't mean to fall asleep (because falling asleep is really a bad fucking idea) but the tears and the exhaustion make everything feel heavy, and he has to lie his head down, just for awhile, just for a little while, just . . .

Sam opens his eyes and Jessica's on the ceiling, and that's only where the nightmare _begins_.

Because Dean's there like he was before, pulling him away, pulling him to safety, but without warning he gives up and lets go, and Sam falls to the floor with an audible thump. Sam gets to his hands and knees, trying not to breathe in the smoke, and he finds himself staring up into the double barrel of Dean's shotgun.

"Dean—"Sam tries but Dean doesn't listen.

Dean says, "I don't know what you are, but you're not my brother."

And when Sam tries to correct him, Dean just leaves, locking the door behind him, locking Sam in. There's no where to go, and the smoke's getting thicker, but he won't choke to death. That's not his way.

The fire is around him, closer, closer.

And even Jessica's gone now, so Sam burns alone.

IV.

"Hey, Sam! Sammy! Come on, man, wake up."

Sam comes to, slowly, blinking back both flames and abandonment, and realizes that Dean's two seconds away from smacking him into consciousness. He reaches out and catches Dean's good wrist loosely within his fingers, bringing it back close to his chest where he can hold on to it like a teddy bear. "Shit," Sam mutters, closing his eyes, and he hears a small snort from somewhere above him.

"Yeah," Dean says dryly. "That must have been one hell of a nightmare, Sammy."

Sam's eyes shoot open and he sits up quickly, staring at Dean with too much hope in his throat. "Dean—"he says.

Dean shakes his head, anticipating the question. "Still Amnesia Guy," he says. "Only now I'm Insomnia Guy too." He shakes his head. "I guess I should be grateful I'm not Dead Guy or anything, but frankly, I'm just not in the fucking mood."

Sam looks at him. "I'm grateful," he says as clearly as he can, and Dean slides his gaze away, unwilling or unable to maintain eye contact.

For a few minutes they sit like that, so close and so far apart, until Dean finally mentions that he'll need his wrist back eventually. Sam looks down, surprised that he's still holding it, and lets go with a reluctance that he can't voice.

"Why are you still here?" Sam asks instead.

Dean doesn't look up, doesn't even acknowledge the question. So Sam asks it again and Dean just shrugs.

"Dean," Sam says. "I fell asleep. I was out, I was gone; you could have hightailed it to Vegas by now. Playing slots, dealing cards, hanging out with people who don't hunt crazy chickens . . . you could be gone by now, and you're still here." Sam watches Dean's face, careful for any kind of sign. "You woke me up," Sam says. "Why did you wake me up?"

Dean shrugs again, as if that's any kind of answer. "I don't know man," he says finally. "Where was I going to go? The cops?" He snorts. "They'd probably think I was the one who was crazy, and besides, apparently that'd have been a lousy fucking move."

Sam blinks, confused, and Dean gestures towards the laptop. "Tried this thing out," Dean admits, "while you were snoring away. Figured I'd Google our names or look for top secret files or _something_ that would give me a clue on what the hell was going on." Dean snorts again. "Didn't exactly expect to find the FBI's Most Wanted List freaking bookmarked."

"Ah," Sam says. 

"Yeeeah," Dean replies. "It's not a very good picture of me, you know. Which is a shame, considering. I'm one hell of a handsome devil."

Sam smiles but Dean's so obviously miserable that the smile doesn't last too long, fading as if it never was. He watches as Dean stands up and walks over to the table where Dad's journal is lying open. "After that little pleasant surprise," Dean says, "I found this and started looking at it. Man, this thing's got some crazy shit in it."

_That's an understatement_, Sam thinks, but it also feels like sacrilege, because those are Dad's words, Dad's thoughts, and Dean was practically disregarding them.

_Or maybe not_, Sam reconsiders as he watches Dean look at the journal. Dean's smiling, in the way that his lips are curved upward at the corners, but he looks confused and frustrated and, maybe most of all, _frightened_.

"Thing is," Dean says, still looking at the journal. "There were some entries in here where . . . uh . . . where our _Dad_ talked about these, uh, these hunts, and . . . well, there was this one, I guess, this, um, werewolf thing, and I guess I got a little sliced and diced there, and, well . . ."

Dean lifts up his shirt to reveal his stomach, and Sam looks at scars he's already seen. He can remember that night, ten years ago now, where a particularly vicious werewolf had nearly ripped his brother in half. Sam had been the one to hold him, to press white gauze down on his stomach. Sam had been the one to pray while John drove like the devil to get to a hospital.

Dean almost hadn't made it. But that was pretty par for the course, too.

"I don't remember them," Dean mutters, glancing at Sam. "I don't remember them, but I bet they hurt like hell."

_Dean in his arms, bleeding, gasping jokes while his entrails practically spilled out._ "They did," Sam says softly, "but you never let it show."

Dean apparently doesn't know what to do with that, so he drops both his shirt and his gaze. A few minutes worth of pacing leads him back to his bed. He sits back down and stares at the floor.

"It's not enough," Dean says softly, so softly that Sam can barely hear him. "The scars . . .they're not enough." And Sam understands that Dean's not looking for proof so much as reassurance.

Reassurance that he belongs somewhere. That he isn't all alone.

"We have some pictures," Sam offers quietly. "Of Dad and Mom and the house before. Do you . . . do you want to see them?"

Dean won't look up. "Sure," he says quietly.

V.

Sam goes out to McDonalds for some much-needed breakfast, and when he gets back, Dean is still looking at the pictures. They don't exactly have an attic's worth, so Dean must have looked through each over and over again.

"I don't recognize _anything_," Dean growls as Sam throws him an Egg McMuffin. "They're just . . . they're just pictures. They don't _mean_ anything."

"Give it time," Sam says. "Doctors said it could be awhile."

Dean snorts. "That just means they don't know shit. They don't know when my memory's coming back, or _if_ it's coming back." He tosses the pictures aside carelessly, as if he hadn't spent the last twenty minutes staring at them. "Fuckin' doctors probably couldn't find their asses in the dark."

Sam raises an eyebrow. "_Somebody's_ cranky today."

"Excuse me, Princess, but not everybody got their beauty sleep last night. _Some_ people just found out that the freaking Boogeyman is real." Dean unwraps his breakfast and begins taking his frustration out on the Egg McMuffin, chewing so savagely that he seems to be thinking, _I hope you can still feel that, you stupid freaking cow_.

The gesture is so perfectly Dean that Sam has to look away. _I want my brother back_, Sam thinks, and then reminds himself that his brother hasn't actually left.

Sam finishes his breakfast and picks the pictures up off the floor, glancing for a moment at a close up of their mother. He sits down on the mattress by Dean and puts the picture in front of him. "This is Mom," he tells Dean.

Dean does everything but roll his eyes. "I guessed," he snaps, and it makes Sam recoil a bit. Dean's always treated Mom with such . . . reverence.

But Sam knows Dean's just frustrated, and he tries to find something that they can both relate to. "I don't remember her, either," Sam admits, and Dean's head lifts quickly. "I was just a baby when . . . I only know what you told me." Sam taps his fingers, nervously, against the ugly comforter they're sitting on. "Do you . . . want to know anything?"

Dean just shrugs. His face is guarded, hard to read, as always, but Sam decides to take it as a 'yes' because he honestly doesn't know what else to do. "Well," Sam says, thinking of the hushed stories Dean used to tell, "she used to make brownies a lot. Those were your favorites. She baked all the time but she was a pretty terrible cook. You told me she burned almost everything. You and Dad used to tease her about that."

Sam can tell Dean's listening by how blank his brother's face is, working too hard for neutrality when anyone else would be hanging on every word. "She used to garden, too," Sam says, "and you used to help by picking out weeds with your hands. You said you liked getting them dirty, and you liked picking up worms to give to her. She'd . . . she'd pretend she was scared of them, but you both knew she wasn't."

And God, it's _weird_, giving Dean back memories that Dean had first given to him. Sam tries to remember everything that Dean's ever told him, but even before the amnesia, Dean hadn't remembered all that much. Sam tells Dean what he can, about playing hide and seek and taking picnics, and he finally draws to a close with Mom's belief in God, in the angels.

Dean closes his eyes at this. "Tell me about the fire," he says.

Sam's immediate reaction is _which one_ but of course he knows which one. "You never told me much," Sam hedges cautiously, hesitant about what to say.

"Tell me what I did," Dean says . . . so Sam does. He tells Dean all that he remembers.

They sit there quietly for a long time, Sam staring at Dean, Dean staring everywhere else. Sam wants to be able to read his brother, but he can't; that mask of neutrality is on full force. Finally, Dean looks over at Sam, his hands twitching in a nervous habit that Sam doesn't recognize. "I carried you out?" he asks, and Sam nods his head.

Dean nods to. "I take care of you," he says, only this time he's telling Sam and not asking him.

Sam answers anyway. "Yeah," he says. "You take care of me."

Dean nods once, like he's filing this information away. "Okay," he says. "Okay."

"Okay. I can do that."

TBC

Author's Notes: Please tell me if you're liking this so far, what you think, etc. etc. Reviews are good for the soul. They make us crazy fangirls very happy!


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: I forgot to put one on the first chapter. But just in case any of you were in serious doubt, I really don't own anything to do with Supernatural.

Author's Notes: I just wanted to thank everyone so much for all the reviews. They really do help out a lot. Also, just as a warning, everything I've learned about amnesia, I've learned from television and bad movies, so I might have taken some liberties with how the process works.

VI.

The doctors said to give Dean stability, but what could Dean possibly recognize in stability? Their lives were transient, always where the wind, and the next hunt, took them, and Sam's scared that Dean will never remember if they're mired down in the same place.

So they move around from one motel to another, and try to figure out where to go from here.

They don't seek out hunts because Sam's not suicidal, but they manage to find one anyway because Sam's not lucky either. There's a vampire in Texas, and of all the motels it could choose to prey on, it picks the one that Dean and Sam are currently staying at.

Typical.

Sam takes care of the vampire with a quick stroke from a machete, but he forgets about the little girl the vamp was feeding on—only it's not really a little girl, not anymore. She knocks the machete out of Sam's hands and is at his throat before he can blink. He's stumbling for his cross but too slow, too late, and her teeth are already starting to break his skin.

Then the pressure around his neck is suddenly gone, and it takes Sam a few rapid blinks to see Dean standing above him. He's pulling the girl back by her long blonde hair as she reaches, snarling, clawing, for Sam.

Dean has the machete in his hand. All it takes is one good swing.

The little girl's head goes flying, and there's blood all over his brother.

Sam stands up quickly, staring at Dean as Dean stares at his hands like he's never seen them before. It takes Sam a second to realize that, for Dean, this is the first supernatural thing he's ever seen.

It takes Sam a second longer to realize that, for Dean, this is the first thing he's ever killed.

_And it had to be a girl about seven years old._

Typical. Fucking typical.

Sam picks up the machete that Dean has dropped on the ground. "Dean," he says cautiously, "You okay, man?"

Dean shrugs, as usual, but it's after too long of a pause, like he has some kind of ten second time delay in his hearing. "Sure," he says, "sure." His voice is just _wrong_, and he's still staring at his hands where blood drips slowly from his fingers.

Sam moves towards him but then stops, a sound alerting him from the distance. "Sirens," he realizes. "_Fuck_. Come on, Dean, we gotta go."

Sam's already ten feet away before he realizes he's walking alone. He turns back to see Dean standing in the same place, staring at his fingers. "Dean," he says, walking back quickly. "Dean, we gotta _go_."

". . .what?"

Sam takes one long look at his brother and then takes him by the arm, pulling him towards the Impala and into the passenger seat. There's nothing even remotely resembling awareness or understanding in his brother's eyes, and it will take too long to try to explain why they couldn't be here when the cops showed up.

Sam puts the car into gear and gets them the fuck out of dodge.

It's not until they're back on the freeway, maybe fifteen, twenty minutes after they left, that Dean's eyes start moving again, signaling that somebody was back home. Sam wants to talk about this, wants to tell Dean he did nothing wrong, but he's not sure how Dean would react, so instead he keeps things loose. "Thanks for the rescue," he says lightly.

Dean shrugs. "You're my brother," he says, and then he slides his eyes over to Sam, too hesitant, too _scared_.

It completely freaks Sam out.

"Right?" Dean asks, and _Jesus_, it's just wrong. Because Dean's not reminding Sam he's his brother and would do anything to save him. Dean's asking for confirmation: _You're my brother? Right? Right?_

God, it's so fucked up. Dean shouldn't have to ask this. 

"Yeah, Dean," Sam says. His mouth is suddenly so dry.

"Yeah, Dean. I'm your brother."

VII.

Their pattern for the next few weeks is haphazard at best. They travel from place to place, heading towards towns they've stayed in before. This isn't exactly difficult; they've been almost everywhere in the country together, but some of the places evoke bad memories, if in Sam and not in Dean. Dean looks at every other place like he's never seen it before, and Sam keeps telling himself, _Temporary. It's temporary._

At first, Dean is oddly reluctant to drive, as if he might have forgotten how amidst everything else that he has lost. But he tries it anyway and seems okay with it, although there's no passion or feeling like there normally is. When Dean had first been released from the hospital, Sam had walked him carefully up to his car.

"This is your baby," Sam had said. "I think you love it more than life itself."

Dean just looked at impassively. "It's nice," he had said.

Sam doesn't know what it feels like to have your heart break; Dean was the one who'd had a heart attack. Sam doesn't know anything about that. But watching Dean just look at the Impala, just look and feel _nothing_ . . . it was a little like standing at Jessica's grave, thinking, _She's gone. She's really gone._

He didn't tell Dean, but Dean had noticed. He refuses to talk about it, but Sam can see him, trying day by day to do the right thing, the appropriate thing, the _Dean_ thing. Dean's trying so hard to act like he's supposed to that it makes Sam think of broken hearts again, because Dean's doing it to protect him. Dean's trying to be like Dean for Sam.

Sam wants to talk, but Dean seems to have remembered that he's not so huge on the whole gush fest thing, so instead they usually just banter about nothing at all, and it feels nice, too nice really. Sometimes, it's just so easy to pretend that this whole amnesia deal never happened. Sam likes to let himself be fooled, an illusion he indulges in too often.

They're driving down the freeway when Sam is forced to remember that things really have changed. Dean's sitting in the passenger seat, drumming his fingers to AC/DC, when he suddenly sits up straighter and flicks the music off without a sound. Sam's surprised, because Dean always insists on music, his passion for mullet rock apparently instinctual from birth, but Dean looks like he's listening to something else now, some other voice singing in his head.

There Dean goes again, freaking Sam out. Sam says, "Dean? Dean, you okay?"

Dean doesn't answer. He barely moves. Then, his eyes flick quickly to the road. "Dude," he says, "turn off here."

Sam is nonplussed. "What?"

"_Here_!"

Sam quickly turns off the Interstate, and they begin traveling back roads. Dean navigates, usually at the last minute, causing Sam to skid and make sharp curves. Normally, there would be a lecture, but Dean's not even feigning interest in his car right now. They're traveling in the woods for ten minutes before Sam finally figures out where they're headed.

Sam almost stops the car in the middle of the road. "Dean," he says quietly.

Dean doesn't want to listen. They travel up to the cabin in complete silence.

Dean gets out of the car without a word and takes slow, hesitating steps inside the building. Sam follows silently, not sure what to say; they really needed to come up with some kind of Amnesiac Brothers Handbook. Dean moves around, stopping in several places to stare at nothing in particular, and finally ends up touching the wall that he had been pinned to, bleeding so much blood from the center of his chest.

Dean's left fingers trail the wood, as if tracking the blood that had spilled down the wall. His broken wrist is cradled close to his chest. His eyes are open but he doesn't move.

Sam waits but Dean stays like this for over five minutes, and Sam just can't take doing nothing any longer. "Dean," he says tentatively, as if his brother's name encompassed everything.

"I . . . he . . ." Dean stops. "_We_ were here, all of us. You, me, and . . . and Dad." Dean frowns. "That's . . . that's Dad, right? We were all here."

"Yeah," Sam says hoarsely, watching, waiting.

Dean closes his eyes. "There was something wrong with him," Dean whispers. "He . . . he was talking, and there was something . . . something wrong. _He_ was wrong."

"He was possessed," Sam tells him. "The Yellow Eyed Demon, _the_ Demon. Do you remember it? Do you remember what happened?

Dean licks his lips, as if his mouth has suddenly gone very dry. "No," he says finally, shaking his head, "but I remember bleeding and . . ." He trails off.

"Dean? Dean, what do you remember?"

Dean opens his eyes and steps back from the wall unsteadily. "Nothing," he says. "Just . . . nothing." But his fingers are still moving minutely, still trailing his blood in the air beside him, and Sam knows he's lying, just not how to get him to stop. "Let's get out of this place, huh? It's freaking freezing in here, and I'm hungry."

"Dean—"

But Dean won't allow it. "Now not, Sammy. Just . . .don't push right now, okay?"

Sam doesn't have much of a choice. "Okay," he says. "Okay."

VIII.

Dean's memory starts coming back, but it's in fits and jumps and inconsistent echoes that are impossible to hold on to, impossible to call _real_. Sam is frankly grateful for anything at this point, but Dean just seems more frustrated by the second.

"Yes, Sam," Dean says testily. "It's _wonderful_ that I once made myself sick pulling a Cool Hand Luke. I mean, like, wow, I just feel so fulfilled as a person now, you know, having this vague recollection of eggs and a dirty motel toilet. I mean, really, who cares about those other, little insignificant memories, like you or Dad or _anything to do with my life_. I'm totally good now; just call me Cool Hand Dean."

Sam sighs and rolls his eyes. Dean's been like this for the last few weeks, and it's starting to drive Sam up the wall. He opens his mouth to say something and Dean interrupts. "If the next words out of your mouth are, 'Give it time,' Sammy, I swear to God, I am going to beat you bloody."

Sam shuts up immediately and fiddles with his fingers, trying to act like that wasn't _exactly_ what he'd been about to say. "Maybe you're trying too hard," he suggests instead. "Maybe you need to take a break from—"

"From what? Thinking? Sitting around all day doing nothing?" Dean snorts and flings himself down on the motel bed. "It's not like I'm breaking a sweat from all this massively hard work here, Sam."

Sam looks at him. "Is that what's wrong with you? You're bored?" Sam tries to think of something fun they could do. "We could take off a day early from here and, I don't know, find a batting cage or catch a movie or—"

"Hang around with our thumbs up our ass all day?"

"Dude, _seriously_," Sam says, more than a little aggravated. "What the hell is wrong with you? You've been bitching for two weeks straight and you're driving me freaking nuts. If you want to stay, we'll stay. If you want to go, we'll go. But we can't do anything until you figure out _what you want_."

"I want a _life_," Dean snaps back, and it makes Sam pause in the middle of the room. Dean looks away, taking a long, drawn out breath. "We're not doing anything here, Sam. This last month we've been driving around? We're just killing time until I remember something or one of us finally kicks the bucket. And what if I never remember—have you thought of that? What if I stay Amnesia Guy forever? We're going to be doing this, driving around, haunting old motel rooms and bars for the rest of our lives."

Sam isn't quite sure what to say to that. Dean _likes_ driving around, bouncing from bar to bar, being on the open road, or, at least, he did. It's never occurred to Sam that Dean might want something else. "Dean," Sam says, "that's kind of what our life is. We go from place to place—"

"Saving people, hunting things, the family business, I know." Those are Dean's words and Sam can't remember ever saying them back to him. He wants to call Dean on it but Dean is still talking. "We _were_ doing those things. We_ were _hunting bad guys and helping people, but now? Now, we're just idling, and it's fruitless, man, it's like what's the point? We might as well find a garden with a bunch of freakin' daises to stare at for how much we're actually getting accomplished here."

Sam tries to interrupt again but Dean won't let him. "Look, man, I know you're not real big on this whole hunting lifestyle. I mean, I don't remember that, not really, but I get it from what you've told me. I get it, but Sam at least we were doing something. We had some kind of mission, some purpose, _something_. Now we don't have anything and I . . . I don't want to live like that, Sammy."

"You're not going to," Sam says, his voice sounding thick in his own ears. There's desperation there, and fear, when he says, "You're going to get your memory back, Dean. Hell, you already are, a little."

Dean tries to dismiss this but Sam doesn't let him. He clears his throat and takes the doubt out of his voice; Dean needs someone to be confident with him, for once. "I know it's taking more time than you want, and I get that you're running out of patience, but your memory _is_ coming back, and I'm not willing to start hunting until it does. Instinct will only take you so far, Dean. You have to have experience, experience and training. We got lucky with that vampire a few weeks ago. We are not ready for this."

Dean looks away, closing himself off, and Sam moves to the edge of the bed opposite Dean. "This is not. Going to last. Forever. You have to give it _time_."

Dean doesn't say anything for awhile, and Sam doesn't push him, just waits. "Yeah, all right," Dean sighs finally and looks at his hands in front of him. Sam continues to wait, watching his brother until Dean says, "All _right_, Sam, I _get_ it. Patience is a virtue, blah blah blah. I'll sit here and wait _patiently_ until my memory comes back."

"Good," Sam says, smiling, and walks over to the table they call their "kitchen". "I'm going to make a sandwich," he says. "You want one?"

"Sure," Dean says.

Sam's pouring mustard on his sandwich when he hears his name from behind him. "So," Dean says, "I've been waiting about thirty seconds now for my memories." Sam can hear the grin in his voice. "Are we there yet?"

Sam rolls his eyes. "Dean."

"Are we there yet?"

"We're not even in the car."

"Are we there yet?"

"Dean, shut up."

"Okay . . . hey, Sam? Are we there yet?"

Sam throws Dean's sandwich at him and flips him off while Dean laughs.

TBC: Thought I'd end this on a lighter note. Next (and should be last) chapter has a little more angst. Pleeeeease review and tell me what you think so far.


	3. Chapter 3

Author's Notes: Okay, well, last chapter is up. Hope everyone likes and, again, thanks for the awesome reviews. It really helps with motivation. And the ego. We all need an ego boost now and then.

IX.

Sam's dreaming but for once it has nothing to do with the Demon. Or fire, for that matter, or blood, or Jessica on the ceiling. Instead, he's dreaming oddly of . . . ducks. They aren't demonic ducks or possessed ducks or even mean little ducks eating more palm than bread. They're just a bunch of totally normal, boring ducks floating around this lake that he and Dean are sitting by.

Sam thinks, idly, _it must be nice to be a duck_, and he and Dean get into a conversation about what animal they'll be in their next life. Dean thinks it's lame that Sam wants to be a duck, but can provide absolutely no sound reasoning for his ambition to become a squirrel.

It's an odd dream . . . okay, it's a very odd dream, somewhere between peculiar and just downright weird . . . but it's so blissfully not _horrible_ that Sam's almost disappointed when a sound begins to pull him into a less than fulfilling consciousness. But the sound continues and Sam (unfortunately) can't seem to ignore it, so he gives up his little ducks for a cold motel room.

He's blinking in the darkness for three whole minutes before he realizes that he's been listening to Dean throwing up in the bathroom.

Sam's up on his feet and across the room before another conscious thought enters his brain. "Dean," he says quietly, knocking on the door. "Dean, you okay in there?"

Dean makes a grunting sound that Sam supposes means, "I'm fine, Sam, I'm fine. Get the hell away from me." Sam ignores it and carefully opens the door. "Dean?" he says.

Dean is slouched halfway over the toilet, his skin pale and visibly clammy. "I'm fine, Sam, I'm fine," he says. "Get the hell away from me." Sam continues to ignore him and sits down on the floor, next to his brother who has started to puke again.

Dean finishes, flushes the toilet, and scoots himself backward, letting his head fall backwards against the dirty shower door. "Man," he says, "that's the last time I eat Thai." And it's a joke because they ate Thai (Sam's gag because Dean didn't know that he hated Thai food), but also because Dean had met a girl _named_ Ty and had exacted his revenge by incanting every detail. _I may not remember everything I've learned over the years, but let me tell you, man, some things you just KNOW, you know? Like when she took off her skirt, and that glittery pink thong, man, that was awesome, and I took THAT off and she—shut up, Dean! SHUT! UP!_ Dean had, for about ten seconds.

Dean's waiting for a snicker or a roll of the eyes. Sam just looks at him.

"Oh come on, man; that was funny. I might still be Amnesia Guy, but I _know_ that was funny."

"Hysterical, Dean. Now what happened?"

"To your sense of humor? Don't know. Can't remember, really, but I'm beginning to doubt that you ever actually had one."

"Dean."

"It's too bad, though. The whole angsty-emo thing you've got going might work for you now, but when you get old and crusty, you're just going to look pathetic, and let me tell you, man, not many chicks dig pathetic."

"_Dean_."

"What?" Dean snaps, and Sam can see that Dean's control is fragile, tenuous at best. Dean looks away, glaring at the bathroom wall, but he looks more scared than Sam can ever remember seeing him. Sam's irritation melts away.

"Just . . . just tell me what happened, okay?" Sam tries to keep his voice gentle because Dean's _shaking_ and Sam's afraid of making him shatter. "Please, man? Just . . . just tell me what happened."

Dean shrugs, like, _no big deal, Sambo_, but it is a big deal, and they both know it. "I guess, I guess I kind of had this dream," he says, and the shaking becomes rocking, very gently, back and forth. "It just . . . it freaked me out a little, I guess. But it's not . . . it's not that big of a deal."

The lie's so obvious that Sam just ignores it. "What was it about?" he asks but there's no reply. "Dean," Sam says, more firmly. "What did you dream about?"

"The . . . the past, I guess." Dean shrugs again, and he looks at the walls, at the floor, at anything that's not Sam. "I mean, I think it was the past. It's not . . . it's not all there anymore, and I don't . . . I can't be sure that it's . . ."

Sam keeps his voice calm, keeps it even and measured. Dean's freaking out and Sam wants to freak out too, but he can't this time; Dean needs him, dammit. "Tell me what you dreamt," Sam says, "and I'll tell you if it happened."

Dean looks up then, eyes finally lifting to rest on Sam's face. "You shot me," Dean says, and his voice cracks like he's 13. "You shot me." No anger, just shock, disbelief, and _fear_.

And the worst thing is that Sam can't even ask, _Which time?_

"Dean, I . . ." He falters, trailing off. "That wasn't . . . that wasn't exactly me, okay? I mean it was me, but I was, I was like possessed" (_or maybe just infected with rage by a psychotic ghost_) "and I didn't, I wouldn't . . .you know I wouldn't ever willingly hurt you . . .Dean? Right?"

Dean doesn't answer. His gaze has dropped again, and he's holding his knees close like he's trying to make himself as small as possible. Sam doesn't want to push him but he can't just sit there. "Dean," Sam says and it's enough to make Dean crack.

"I don't know, Sam!" Dean yells. "I mean, yeah, I thought, I _thought_ you wouldn't ever, but—I don't know you, okay? I don't _know you_!"

"I'm your brother—"

"I don't know that! You told me but I don't know it! I don't remember! I've just been taking your word for it! I don't have any way of knowing!"

"But you've remembered; I know you have! Just the other day you remembered sneaking us into this clubhouse. I was 10 and you made fun of all the rich kids and you kissed Sarah Myers and—"

"Dude, that's just something that sort of, you know, came at the corner of my mind, or something. It's not a _real_ memory; it's like trying to remember a dream where nothing makes sense. All _I _remembered was some ugly building and some blonde chick—_you're_ the one who filled in all the details. I don't remember any of them. And how the hell do I even know that you're the little kid that I vaguely saw? You've grown a few inches since you were ten, Sammy. That kid could have been anyone."

"Dean, you _know_ me. We've been driving around for almost two months now. I thought—I thought we were doing okay. I thought you trusted me."

"I did," Dean says, "but that might have been a mistake."

Sam's resolve to not freak out, to stay calm and in control of the situation, snaps in half like the proverbial straw sitting on the camel's back. "You're my _brother_," Sam says, his brain too numb to think of anything else.

And Dean just sits there, looking at him. 

"I don't know if I want to be," he says.

X.

Sam doesn't move for the rest of the night.

Dean does. Dean sits silently for a few minutes, staring at the ground like it has answers, and then he stands up, awkwardly easing around Sam so that he can rinse his mouth out. He stands there for a minute and Sam thinks Dean might be looking down at him, but Sam's not sure because he doesn't want to look up. Now Sam's the one in shock, the one holding his knees close to his chest, and Dean shuts the bathroom door behind him as he leaves Sam just sitting there.

Sam doesn't move and doesn't think. He just lets himself drift away.

He's not exactly sure when conscious thought comes back to him, but he knows it's been several hours from the early morning light filtering through the bathroom window. There's no sound on the other side of the door, no television or footsteps or even breath, so Dean might be gone, is likely gone (_and he doesn't want to be your brother anymore_) and Sam isn't sure what to do about that. Maybe there's nothing to do about that.

Sam has a destiny, and it ain't looking too pretty these days. They've put it on hold for now, paused the future in favor of the past, but Sam can't put it on hold forever. Someday, he's going to turn evil; he'll be just like all the other children the Demon's touched. He could hurt Dean, he could kill Dean, and at best, Dean could kill him. But that would shatter his brother, at least, the brother he used to have.

Dean deserves more than this, more than hunting without a home, more than killing without redemption, more than nearly dying at every turn. Dean deserves a family. Dean deserves a life. How can Sam stand in his way when Dean didn't stand in his? When Sam ran away to Stanford and Dean never once came to drag him back . . . how can Sam force Dean into a life no one should have to live?

Maybe this amnesia is a blessing and not a curse after all.

Maybe it's time for Sam to give up and just let Dean _go_.

Sam sits on the bathroom floor and considers all of this for one, long minute.

_He's my brother_ and "Fuck that" and Sam's off to search for Dean.

XI.

Sam's search for Dean lasts all of 37 seconds.

Sam takes a moment to pull on fresh jeans and find his shoes halfway shoved under the bed. Then he's running across the room with only one thought (_find Dean_), and there's no details, no plan, just _find Dean, find Dean_. He swings open the door, ready to run over the state if it's required.

Sam opens the door and runs smack into his brother.

"Ow!" Sam yells and "Ow!" Dean yells and "Jesus!" and "_Fucking Christ_!" they yell.

Dean and Sam look at each other and start laughing and laughing.

The laughter is dark but at least it's dark _together_.

XII.

"So, I'm . . . I'm sorry I kind of wigged on you back there," Dean says. "I don't know, I guess I was . .. channeling some chick on the rag or something."

The comment is so _Dean_. Sam smiles and rolls his eyes. "It's okay, Dean," Sam says.

Dean shakes his head. "It's not."

They're sitting on their respective beds, Sam's eyes on Dean, Dean's eyes on his hands. Dean's no longer shaking, no longer fragile and terrified and broken, but he still can't seem to look up and directly into Sam's eyes. Dean fidgets for a minute, a habit that Sam still can't quite get over, and begins to talk quietly, addressing his fingertips.

"I don't . . . I don't remember most stuff, Sam, and it's not always easy just . . . just having to sit there and trust somebody. Putting your life in someone's else's hands, it's . . . it's a hard thing to do, and I know you're used to it, used to trusting me because you've known me all your life, but I've barely known you for two months, Sammy, and it's not an easy spot to be in." Dean laughs uneasily, still watching his hands. "I guess I don't really like being vulnerable, you know?"

Sam sighs. "I know, man," he says.

Dean nods, keeps his gaze down. "Listen, that dream, that—memory, or whatever—it freaked me out a little, and I didn't know how to handle it. Cause, man, you gotta understand, you put your life in some stranger's hands; you really don't want to find out that that same asshole shot you."

Sam smirks but keeps quiet and lets Dean continue. "I remember, I remember you saying some things, and I remember the gun in your hands, and I, I remember having a much larger appreciation for the destructiveness of rock salt."

Sam winces but he figures that at least he knows which shooting they're talking about now. The familiar guilt wells up again and he tries to shrug it back. He fails, of course, but that's what Winchesters do, try.

Dean notices but, to his credit, doesn't bother to comment. "But what I remember most," Dean continues, "is how it felt. Not the rock salt but just . . . how it felt to know that my brother hated me."

There goes Sam's resolve to be silent. "Dean—"

"No, Sam, I'm not—just let me finish, okay?" Dean looks at Sam, and there's more than just a little desperation in his eyes. "I—I don't want to have to this chick flick moment all day, all right?"

It's not all right, it's just _not _all right, but what can he do? Dean's actually _talking_ for once; it sucks, but Sam has to just sit there and listen. Doesn't mean he can't grit his teeth, though. "Fine," Sam says tightly.

"Thanks," Dean says, and Sam can tell he's honestly grateful. "Look, I'm not—I'm not bringing all this up to hurt you, and I don't, I don't think you hate me, not really, because hello? Hospital, amnesia? You could have left my ass behind a long time ago. But then, when you shot me, I thought—I thought you had to have hated me, and I remember feeling betrayed and wondering what I could have done to you to make you want to kill me so badly."

"_And_," Dean says before Sam can once again break his promise, "I realized that as fucked up as that felt . . . it only hurt so much _because_ you're my brother."

Sam's shaking his head, trying to explain, trying to find the words that will tell Dean that he loves him, and Dean nearly growls when he says, "_Sam_. You're not _listening_ to me. You're my brother, okay? I get that now. I mean, I was scared before because I didn't know you and I had to trust you, but now—now I remember you." Dean laughs a little. "Remembering you kind of sucked, and it wasn't the best of memories for me, but I remember you, okay? You're my brother. I remember that."

And Dean's not looking at the floor or his hands; he's looking Sam steadily, eye to eye. "I know you," Dean says clearly. "I know you and I trust you."

Sam just stares at him for a minute

"Sam? Sam, come on, dude, you gotta talk to me here . . . Sammy, please, man, don't make me repeat that whole thing. You know I hate this kind of crap . . . I think . . . Sam? Sammy?"

Sam just shakes his head slowly. "Oh, man," he says. "I think I need a hug."

Dean is absolutely still for a minute. Then he glares hard enough to shatter stone. "Oh, fuck you," Dean says.

"Seriously, man, that was beautiful," Sam replies, grinning. _And it was beautiful, it was, and Sam wouldn't be ashamed to cry, but Dean wouldn't go for tears. This was better. This was good_.

And amusingly, just as satisfying. For once, it was sort of nice to have the upper hand.

Sam gets off the bed with outstretched arms. "Come here, you big softie."

Dean laughs as he shoves Sam away. "Get away from me, you psycho."

"Dick."

"Freak."

"Jerk."

"Bitch."

Sam grins so hard that Dean asks if he's possessed again, and decides to ward him off with a cross and holy water.

XIII.

"Hey, hey! Pull over!"

"What? Dean—"

"Pull over! I—I remember something . . ."

"Dean? Dean, what do you remember?"

"I remember . . ."

"Yeah . . ."

" . . .remember . . ."

"Dean!"

Dean grins at him. "Dude. You _totally_ wanted to be Cinderella when you were three."

Sam curses and pushes his foot harder on the gas. Of _course_ this is what Dean chooses to remember.

XIV.

"I did not!"

"You did too!"

"Did not!"

"Did too! Just because _you_ don't happen to remember—"

"Dude. I _never_ liked The Mighty Morphin' Power Rangers."

Sam smiles innocently at him. "Are you sure? Are you really, totally, 100 percent _sure_ about that?"

Dean glares at him and stomps away, muttering something about being an only child.

XV.

In the end, it's a little anticlimactic, but Sam supposes that's how most things are. When they face the Demon, it'll probably be a letdown. It's dead, we're alive, and . . . what do we do now, exactly?

Sam figures that'll be what it's like . . .if it ever actually ends.

It's been three months, two weeks, and six days since Dean's fall. Since then, he's remembered little things but not a lot to hold on to. They've managed to get acclimated, though, managed to be brothers again, and Sam catches himself thinking they can live like this. If it never comes back.

They can live like this. They'll still be together.

Dean stops talking in the middle of eating a French fry.

Sam worries at first because he figures Dean's choking. It wouldn't be the first time, the way Dean shovels food into his mouth as though he hasn't eaten in days. But he appears to be breathing and his lips aren't blue and he's not _flopping_ the way a choking person thrashes around, so Sam figures it's something else, maybe a memory, maybe a bad one. Since the memory of the asylum, Dean's had a few more flashes to their less than blissful times, and he's handled every one better than that first, horrible one, but there were so many times to choose from. Dean could be in a million different nightmares.

"Dean?"

Dean looks up at Sam, looks back down, and absently drops his half-eaten French fry. He drums his right fingers on to the table top and cocks his head a little to the left. He looks like he's listening to someone or something. Or maybe he's just waiting.

Sam isn't sure what Dean's waiting for, but _he's_ not going to wait to find out.

"Dean? Dean, talk to me here."

Dean cocks his head a little more. His fingers still on the table.

"De—"

"I remember."

Sam takes a breath. He figured as much. "Okay. What do you—"

"Everything."

"You—what?'

Dean looks up, grinning from ear to ear. "I remember everything," he says. "I remember everything."

They're both silent for one, long minute.

Then they start hollering and cheering and dancing around so loud that they get themselves get kicked out of the shitty diner.

XVI.

It's later, at the motel, when they're both in bed pretending to be asleep, that Dean scares the shit out of Sam by saying, "I don't remember anymore."

Sam panics, breath catching harshly in throat, because his mind immediately fills the empty part of the equation. Not just _I don't remember anymore_ but _I don't remember ANYTHING anymore_, and what kind of a sick, practical joke is that? Giving Dean his memory only to snatch it away again? "Dean—"Sam says.

"Dude, stop freaking out. That's not what I meant. You're such a girl sometimes. I still . . . I still know. I still remember everything.

Sam lets himself take a very long breath of relief. "Then what the hell—"

Dean's voice is hesitant, cracking again and painfully quiet. "I don't remember what Mom looked like," he says. "Not really. I never really remembered."

Sam turns on his side to make out his brother in the darkness. He doesn't understand this. Of course, Dean remembers what . . .

"I don't," Dean says, and Sam realizes he must have spoken his thought out loud. "I realized it earlier, a little after we got back. I thought, I guess I thought it was some sort of delayed reaction or something, that the memory would come back but . . . I never really remembered. When I was a kid, yeah, but she . . . she just kind of faded from me. It was her voice at first; I could remember her words but not her _voice_, and then the edges of her face, and then . . . and then everything else. I had the pictures so I could pretend, could fill in the gaps if I wanted to, but . . . it's not the same, not really. I can't really _see_ her anymore."

Sam listens to Dean take a long, steadying breath. "I guess . . . I guess some things you can never get back, after you lose them."

Sam thinks about Jessica, about his life and Stanford and _normal_. "Yeah," he agrees softly. "Some things that get lost are lost forever."

Then he turns a little more on his side, finding his brother's face in the shadows. Dean, who finally looks at him instead of searching the world for something safer. "But some things," Sam says quietly. "Some things you never really lose."

"Damn straight," Dean says, watching him, and they both think, _I'll always be your brother._

XVII.

Sam's dreaming of those weird ducks again when Dean's cursing wakes him up. "You little bitch!" Dean yells at him. "I _never_ liked the Power Rangers!"

Sam smiles and goes back to sleep.

-Fin.

Author's Notes: Well, that's it. Please, please, pleeeeease review and tell me if you liked it. Also, I've been playing with the notion of doing a flipside sequel where you get Dean's perspective through this whole ordeal. No promises or anything but I've been kind of into the idea, so I'd love to know if anyone's interested, or if they'd just think it'd be redundant.


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